


Requiem

by donttalktothewolf



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Disappointment, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttalktothewolf/pseuds/donttalktothewolf
Summary: “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.” Luke 10:18~And in the wrath of God, the Devil fell.But this time, did he survive the fall?
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 29
Kudos: 32





	1. Introitus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He appears to MATERIALIZE out of the THINNING MIST rising off the bed of smoking sprigs of thyme.  
> HANNIBAL: The Devil has been a yoke on the neck of humanity since we first began to think and dream. (then) I for a much shorter time.
> 
> Script Expert - HANNIBAL Ep. #301 “Antipasto” FINAL DRAFT 12/07/14
> 
> \- Requiem is a Mass for the repose of the souls of the dead. There are beautiful classical compositions about it. My favorite is Mozart’s, he died while writing it. It’s the one I’m using to name the chapters.  
> \- I’m not sure what this is, but it’s something between a pretentious excuse to fangirl all over Gillian Anderson and an extension of the current depressing state of my life. Like a miserable Mary Sue of sorts.  
> \- There is a change of grammatical tense, it is purposeful.

_“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.”  
_ \- William Shakespeare, Macbeth

**I. Requiem aeternam**

_Baltimore, Fall._

The table is set for three. Over the table is her leg. It rests in a bed of coal and ice. How ought to rest burned flesh in Hell. If this is Hannibal’s version of Hell or hers, Bedelia cannot tell. Perhaps it is a mix of both.

A nightmare designed by the hand of God especially for them.

In his dream, Hannibal is eating her alive. She cannot blame him, a snake will always bite when it is hungry. It’s his nature.

In her dream, Bedelia grabs a fork and hides it under her dress. She cannot blame herself, a snake will always bite when it is threatened. It’s her nature. 

God commands, and they must obey. Played by the roll of merciless dice and instinct like snakes that never outgrow their shed skin.

They are the serpent enclosed in Eden devouring its own tail forever. The Ouroboros rebirthed only to die time and time again by the greed of its own deadly bite. 

An eternal vicious cycle.

Unsurprisingly, it fits them.

The roasted leg in front of her is not even collateral damage. It’s circumstance. There’s no blame, but still, sin will stain their flesh with Hell’s fire and brimstone scent. 

At least here, the room smells heavenly.

Like Heaven shall smell on the day of the Final Judgment.

Not many people can say they smelled their own toasted flesh. But Bedelia can, and she smells exactly like it is supposed to smell the divine flesh of burned angels. Sweet and smoked.

Incredibly, she isn’t as horrified as she should be given the circumstances. It must be the drugs. The chemical cocktail that has kept her warm in the midst of winter and protects her from the pain of the burn but not from the cold.

It dulls everything. But not enough.

Never enough.

When the Devil arrives, there is no lightning. 

His steps coming from afar. The muffled sound of a predator getting closer. A melody that she came to recognize as almost her own, but that now she will never hear again.

Standing behind her back, Hannibal’s fingers travel up her arm. His touch is careful like he is handling a precious piece of artwork carved by the talented hands of a renaissance master.

He stops, his fingertips resting above her collarbone. A lightly caress, but she feels it deeper.

He brings his face close to hers. His warm breath against her cheek makes her shudder. Hannibal kisses the skin below her jaw. Where her heartbeat shows him how lively she still very much is in his presence.

First, he uses his lips, then his teeth, and finally, his tongue. He needs to taste her in every possible way he has ever known. Imprint her deep inside his mind palace.

 _To be loved means to be consumed_. Hannibal craves to love her. And so he consumes her flesh.

The warmth of his tongue strangely helps with the sting of the bite. He savors her. An aperitif before they go to the main course. He runs his tongue through her skin and sucks the sapphire in her earrings. 

The silver fork burns against the skin of her hand. She moves, and Hannibal’s hand closes around hers. Then he finally whispers, his voice resonating like echoes of past lives.

_“What have you gotten yourself into, Bedelia?”_

***

_Aegri somnia._

Bedelia diagnosed, as her eyes opened. _A sick man’s dreams_. She had slept in her bath again. The camellia scented water as foreign to her now as would be the depths of a sea. 

It was still warm, so she couldn’t have slept much. Nothing more than a couple of minutes and yet she had dreamed. It was the third time in three days. The same place, the same dream. She could only hope it was not becoming a habit.

Rising from the bathtub, Bedelia took care not to step on the mess on her bathroom floor. The glass of Recioto she had been drinking had slipped from her hand when she slept. It was still intact, but the red wine had spread over the porcelain.

It reminded her of blood spilled. Of Anthony Dimmond crawling. His blood on her face. 

_What have you gotten yourself into, Bedelia?_

The scented water mixing with the pungent smell of the wine seemed to clog her throat. Bedelia grabbed a towel and started to clean up the floor. The red liquid damping the white soft cotton and staining her fingers.

When she rinsed her hands on the sink the water turned slightly pink. Flashes of her hands washing blood sparkled behind her eyes. But she buried it underneath her conscience, like everything else.

Bedelia walked to her closet, her wet hair leaving a trail of small drops behind her. She chose a white camisole, needing the cleanness of the color. But once again thinking of bloodstains. Like footprints in the snow.

She dressed it and wrapped herself in a silken robe. Before leaving the room Bedelia remembered to pick up the glass. But she forgot the stained towels.

At the door she looked at her bed, pristine fresh sheets mocking her. Sleep was the last thing on her mind.

In the kitchen, she poured another glass of Recioto, but the sweet fruity note now tasted stale in her mouth. She threw it down the drain and opted for a bottle of Beluga Gold. 

The vodka burned her throat and made her lips tingle, but she didn't taste anything. Exactly like it was supposed to be.

Glass filled, Bedelia walked through her empty house. The smooth touch of her bare feet on the wood floor was the only sound in the night.

The moonlight painted everything in tones of silver and darkness. Like a ghost, she glowed almost ethereally. For a moment it seemed like she was walking in the land of the dead.

She ended up in her study, and Bedelia could not even say she was surprised. She sat in her chair, the empty one in front of her a reminder of something she refused to acknowledge.

The thoughts in her head making her question her sanity, Bedelia sipped her vodka.

It was where morning found her.

***

The FBI van pulled at the entry of Dr. Du Maurier’s house and Jack Crawford got out followed by a forensic team. Together they made for the door. Jack was raising his hand to knock on the bronze-covered wood when it opened smoothly. 

“Good morning, Agent Crawford.” Dr. Du Maurier greeted him in her unnerving cadenced tone. “I assume you have a court order this time.”

For a moment Jack was speechless. The doctor stood in front of him barefoot, wrapped in a white satin robe, tousled hair. It was the first time he saw Bedelia Maurier less than perfectly composed, and Jack had seen her drugged. This morning, she seemed almost human.

Still very beautiful, and he was sure her robe cost more than a week of his salary. But her _casualness_ caught him off guard. Jack didn’t like being caught off guard. He almost looked at his watch, but he knew it wasn’t early enough to catch her just out of bed. And Dr. Du Maurier had opened the door even before he knocked. Like she had been expecting him.

Her cold gaze brought him to reality.

“I have it right here, ma’am.” He raised the paper and she took it from his hand, eyeing it for a brief moment.

“I’ll keep this, Agent Crawford.” She said and left the door open completely. Jack hadn’t in him the energy or willpower to contradict her. He guessed he would have an intern do a duplicate.

Standing by the open door Dr. Du Maurier watched as they entered her house, their loud boot steps disturbing the empty quietness. Jack almost felt apologetic, and he would have said something if the sound of the door closing hadn’t left his mouth dry.

 _We entered the lioness’ den_ , Jack thought, imagining if this was how Daniel felt when he walked to what seemed like certain death. Jack remembered Daniel's words when he was found alive. _God spared me because I was found blameless._ Jack doubted he would be found blameless. And he was thankful he wasn’t alone. 

Dr. Du Maurier walked towards them, small delicate steps of a feline. Jack watched the uneasiness on the face of his team. Four grown-up men carrying guns spooked by a petite woman dressed in white silk. But there was a quietness about her that crept in his skin. The silence in his head wasn’t peaceful or inviting. It was menacing. Like the endless emptiness of a black hole. Swallowing everything, even light. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

The silence grew, stretching like a wave in a borderless sea.

After what seemed like a long time, Dr. Du Maurier asked, “Where do you wish to start, gentlemen?”

***

They started on the second floor, leaving a trail of chaos on their path, like a hurricane in its wake. The sparse and neatly organized rooms didn’t offer any resistance. Jack Crawford and his men were like wind passing through palm trees.

Bedelia watched them wordlessly. Distancing herself from the process with an ability she had perfected after years as a psychiatrist.

 _Sometimes all she could do was watch_.

***

The only thing out of place they found was some white towels stained red.

“Wine.” Dr. Du Maurier said with a movement of shoulders that in any other person could be considered a shrug. But in her, it couldn’t.

Jack wasn’t surprised by her personal home decor, or in this case, the lack of it. He was actually impressed by the amount of restraint a person must possess to live in such a sterile environment. He compared it to his home. Surfaces covered with case files, the stuffed laundry basket, the coffee mugs accumulating in the sink. Bedelia Du Maurier’s home was an uninhabited but inhabited house.

The doctor watched them work with detachment. As if the events transpired through the lenses of a bifocal, happening to someone else, and she was nothing more than an observer. But Jack knew that must affect her. Someone with her level of reserve must have felt completely violated by their invasion, even if she didn’t show.

In her pantry, Jack couldn’t help but notice Dr. Du Maurier had a wine cellar that could rival Hannibal Lecter’s. They went through the cabinets, and for the first time, a quiet contempt shone in Dr. Du Maurier’s eyes. It was like she wanted to ask what they expected to find amid fava beans and nice Chiantis. Probably not a liver.

Truth be told, Jack wasn’t sure what they were trying to achieve. Hannibal Lecter was missing, but it was not like they could find him inside cabinet drawers. _Perhaps in pieces, Jack._ A metallic voice taunted inside his head. Jack shuddered.

Images of Agent Katz came back to haunt him. Jack felt the familiar wave of guilt flood his chest, accompanied by the flame of rage. Rage and guilt had been like fire and gasoline inside Jack Crawford since the night Hannibal Lecter had almost succeeded in killing them all.

But had they really survived it?

Jack thought of Will Graham inside a John Hopkins ICU from where apparently he would never leave alive. He thought of Alana Bloom, hiding behind Verger’s money as if that could offer any protection when the ghosts that haunt you are the ones inside your head. And Jack thought of himself obsessing about a man that was probably dead at the bottom of the sea.

Hannibal Lecter had once said they were leaving on his bowered time. But if Hannibal Lecter was dead, what did it mean for them? 

Jack looked at the woman by his side, and he tasted poison in his mouth. 

Dr. Du Maurier’s eyes narrowed as she watched Jimmy Price grab a dusty bottle and start to brush it for fingertips.

“Please be careful.” She said, voice so cold the room temperature dropped a few degrees. “This is a bottle of Château Pétrus Bordeaux 1945.”

When that didn’t elicit the expected response. Dr. Du Maureir made sure to clarify. “You are holding a nine thousand dollars bottle of wine.”

Jimmy Price let out a small impressed hiss but continued to handle the bottle the same way he had before. The doctor closed her eyes. Absently, she made a movement to leave the room but decided against it in the end. When she turned, her robe opened slightly. Bemused, Jack saw the smooth curve of a breast covered in white softy lace.

It was such an unexpected image, Jack caught himself staring, and soon after, Dr. Du Maurier did too. Her expression didn’t change, placid coolness over porcelain skin, a mask. She didn’t cover herself or said anything, but Jack felt warmth crept through his neck. Like in sixth grade, when Ms. Jones had caught him glimpsing at her cleavage. He almost expected to be punished again. But nothing happened.

And then the sound of glass shattering filled the room. Dr. Du Maurier flinched, and this time it was Jack’s turn to close his eyes. Thank God, it was not the nine thousand dollars bottle.

In the tense silence that followed, Jack felt like he needed to say something. 

“As you may know, the law doesn’t oblige any compensation for damage caused during a search warrant.” Jack paused. Her gaze was so chilly he almost expected condensation to form in his breath. He cleared his throat. “But I can write you a check out of courtesy.”

“Thank you, Agent Crawford. But it won’t be necessary, this particular bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet had been a gift. Its value was nothing but sentimental.”

And now it’s gone, it was the unspoken words. A resigned finality.

Jack let out a breath through his teeth, she didn’t strike the type to possess such attachments. He looked at the mess in the ground, and not for the first time, he felt tired. He was getting too old for this job.

“You know, Dr. Du Maurier.” He said. “I don’t take any pleasure in this.”

At this, she chuckled. A small hollow sound that made Jack greet his teeth.

“Yes, you do, Agent Crawford.”

Averting his gaze, Jack managed to smile somewhat bashful. He almost blushed again, caught on a lie, Ms. Jones would be so disappointed in him today. Jack guessed he still resented her for scaping prosecution for murder charges. _Twice_.

“Yes, I do.” He murmured, half hoping she would tell him to shove his smugness up his ass, so he wouldn’t need to feel so cheap. But of course, she didn’t. That would have been beneath her uptight manners. Instead, Dr. Du Maurier offered him coffee. Jack’s resolution to refuse it lasted until he saw her coffee machine.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee filled the kitchen, the smell of heaven. Sitting on a stool by the kitchen island, Jack sipped his hot coffee. Black, no sugar, the pure bitter pleasure of Jamaican beans. He drowned it down too quickly despite his best attempts to make it last. Dr. Du Maurier’s coffee went cold in front of her, untouched.

Looking at her, the dark circles under her eyes, the slim arms wrapped around her chest as if trying to shield herself from the world, Jack tried to reconcile this woman with the one who had been The Devil’s consort. He couldn’t.

There was something hopeless about this woman. Something silent that spoke to a raw painful part of him. It was the part that missed Bella, the part that knew grief. How unbearable ache it was. Jack almost wanted to comfort her.

Dr. Du Maurier looked at him like she knew what he was thinking. Like she had been inside his head since the moment that door had closed behind their back. Alarmed, Jack realized his mistake too late. Her eyes locked in his, warm brown against icy blue. 

Her eyes were deep pools, and black spread from her pupils like darkness would rise from the bottom of oceans.

“Do you miss her, Agent Crawford?” Dr. Du Maurier asked her tone low, almost a hiss. Jack’s eyes widened, the image of a serpent winding up played on his head. “Your Bella? It has been what? Three? Four Years? Has time erased the pain of her loss? Turned it into a buzz that can barely be heard, but it is always there? Do you still hope it is going to disappear?” She touched her lips with the end of her pink tongue. A snake tasting air to feel for the helpless prey. Jack’s heart squeezed in his chest like small hands were closing around it, tighter and tighter. “Grief is such a dull ache, Agent Crawford. It’s a scream of pain no one listens but reverberates quietly inside your mind. It’s a never-ending emptiness.”

Water in his lungs, Jack gasped for air. He was drowning in the depths of her eyes, sinking deep into endless darkness. It felt like watching Bella dying again in his arms. Over and over. Echoes of screams resonating in the back of his mind. But that instead of disappearing only grew louder.

“We’re finished, Jack.” Jimmy Price’s voice was what broke Jack out of his illusion. He got up, gulping for air, legs shaking. Bedelia Du Maurier smiled, showing small white teeth.

All Jack could see was Hannibal Lecter.

Soon after that, Dr. Du Maurier saw them out. Standing at the threshold, she watched them leave.

“Goodbye, Agent Crawford.” She said, voice honeyed, but the eyes were vicious. “You should consider making an appointment. There is so much we could talk.”

Even inside the van, Jack could still feel her gaze in his back. They were leaving the same way they had arrived, empty-handed. But Jack couldn’t shake the feeling Bedelia Du Maurier had walked out with him.

When he got home, Jack took two showers.

That night, lying on his couch in his old pajamas, the sound of the TV as background noise, Jack missed Bella the most. Her absence an invisible scar more vivid than any flesh wound Hannibal Lecter had ever gifted him.

He remembered the empty silence in Bedelia Du Maurier’s house. The silence in his own home that not even a thousand TVs would fill.

Grief was a dull ache, indeed.

Absently Jack scratched the scar in his neck, sometimes it itched.

Before he drifted into a restless sleep, Jack hoped he would dream of Bella. That summer in Tuscany, the first time he saw her. His wife’s kind eyes and beautiful smile, her warm touch.

Instead, he dreamed of a woman dressed in thin white lace. Tangling herself around him, her skin pliable and inviting, her soft lips tasting of honey. 

And blood. His blood.

In his dream, Dr. Du Maurier looked at him with the eyes of a viper and bit him to death.

***

On the other side of the city, under the same Baltimore frigid sky, Bedelia prepared herself a bath. A night ritual that had started to resemble religion. 

Running her hand over the water, the light scent of camellias filling the air, Bedelia sipped from her glass of Amarone. The dry grape wine tasted bitter, perhaps as bitter as death.

Gently, Bedelia let her robe slide from her shoulders, forming a pool of white silk at her feet. She stepped inside her bathtub, the hot water against her skin, a pain she welcomed. 

Resting her head against the edge of the bathtub, Bedelia brought her wine to her lips, her eyelids already heaving. It was like a dance. 

One that she had already memorized the steps but could not keep up with the tempo. 

Lately, sleep had become as elusive as absent lovers, and dreams were ghosts that haunted her in the night. 

Nevertheless, her eyes closed. 

Bedelia drifted, the water claiming the rest of control she still held. 

Minutes later, when she opened her eyes, the water had acquired the color of faded dusk skies. Like a glass of Château d’Esclans. Something pink. 

Her mind played with a more dangerous image, blood dripping for open wounds, a trail in the water. 

It was both and neither. The glass of Amarone had slipped inside the bathtub. A broken edge had pierced her thumb, helping stain the water a pale rosé. 

As she got up, water streaming down her skin, Bedelia wondered how many more nights she could go like this before she went insane. Or died. 

Whichever came first, she hoped.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Aegri somnia is Latin for ‘a sick man’s dreams’ or ‘troubled dreams’. From Horace, Ars Poetica VII 7.  
> \- To be loved means to be consumed is a quote from Journal of my other self by Rainer Maria Rilke.  
> \- This was not beta read, so the mistakes are solely my own. I apologize for murdering the grammar.


	2. Kyrie I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9  
> ~  
> And if the power of God is made perfect in weakness, the Devil must grow stronger in death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JACK CRAWFORD: There is a wisdom longer than considerations of honor. We kill Dolarhyde. Then we kill Hannibal.  
> ALANA BLOOM: He has to die. He has to.  
> WILL GRAHAM: To the Devil his due.
> 
> Script Expert - HANNIBAL Ep. #313 “The Wrath of the Lamb” FINAL DRAFT 04/22/15
> 
> \- There are medical-*ish* descriptions, and also some mildly mentions of *Fester*, and it is not the uncle!

_“Then, if angels fight,_  
 _Weak men must fall.”_  
\- William Shakespeare, Richard II

**I. Kyrie, eleison**

_Baltimore, Fall, Three weeks later._

The smell irritated her nose.

For Bedelia, hospitals had always carried the type of feverish smell of sickness that was badly camouflaged by strong antiseptics and cheap disinfectant. Beneath, it hid an undisguisable layer of fresh urine, sour sweat, and ferric blood that could never be cleaned. 

The smell of life. Human body fluids and heat of metabolism. 

Death smelled different. It was queasily sweet like overripe fruits. Bodies held in a cold grip of inertia. Flesh touched by decay, rotting alone in the dark. 

Death smelled of ruin.

Will Graham’s room smelled of ruin.

Standing by the end of his bed, her Prada cashgora coat draped in her arm, Bedelia’s eyes roved over the debilitated figure lying under a cotton blue sheet. The light was dim but not enough to conceal the translucid of his skin. Paperlike and emaciated, visible veins underneath. Will Graham’s flesh was yielding to death.

The only proof of life came from the uninterrupted beep of his cardiac monitoring, the lines of systolic upstrokes going up in erratic peaks. Heart arrhythmia. His chest rose and fell at the same pace as his mechanical ventilator. In and out, air being forced into his lungs. The only way of providing the levels of oxygen his body needed while suffering from pulmonary edema.

It seemed tragically ironic, almost poetic, he had survived drowning in Baltimore cold waters just to die drowning in his own body fluids. Somewhere in the universe, God was laughing. But here, Bedelia only stared.

Blue irises burning like Hell’s fire.

In his deep dive into the unknown with Hannibal Lecter, Mr. Graham had brought back with him more than darkness. A strain of Streptococcus, that usually would not cause more than a pharyngitis, was resisting the antibiotic treatment. It had started as an infection in the wound in his cheek, but over the span of days had found a way into his bloodstream and now was killing him slowly.

 _Septicemia_ , a generalized infection most commonly known to cause multiple organ failure. Three days ago, his kidneys had failed and he was put in dialysis, blood being filtered by a machine. Yesterday evening his heart had ceased its beating for the first time during a cardiac arrest, and during precisely 23 seconds he had been dead.

It was a matter of time till it was forever.

Call it professional curiosity, but Bedelia had wanted to see him. Lay her eyes on the last crusader of the war against the Devil. Hospital policy had prevented her to do so, until this morning. This visit was a courtesy, and Bedelia had Will Graham’s step-son to thank for.

Walter Foster-Graham had called her. In her kitchen, sipping her coffee still dressed in her silk robe, Bedelia had accepted a call for an unknown number. Whoever she had expected to be, Will Graham’s son was not one of them.

But on the internet, particularly in a sensationalist tabloid website named Tattle Crime, Walter found out about Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. Or like Fredrica Lounds liked to call her, _The Devil’s Bride_. On the phone, Walter told her he knew she had been Will Graham’s psychiatrist. Bedelia asked him if he knew what a psychiatrist was.

“It is a doctor that talks with crazy people.” He said, and a smile appeared on her lips. That was certainly a way of putting it. 

On the other end of the line, there was an uneasy pause, and like years as a psychiatrist had taught her to wait for a patient, Bedelia waited for him. No one knew how to hold silence like Dr. Du Maurier, and her patience was rewarded with five quiet words.

‘They think he _was_ crazy.’ 

Bedelia didn’t need to ask to know who was _he_ , or _they_. The news was full of ‘they’ talking about ‘he’. What got her attention was the choice of grammatical tense. Consciously or unconsciously done, the implications were rather _interesting_. She didn’t mention it, but inside a room in her mind palace, a note was made in the file already entitled: Foster-Graham, Walter.

“What do you think?” She asked; the same calm voice she used in her therapy sessions. Bedelia could hear his breathing. Incredibly steady giving the circumstances.

“He was a cop. Why would they let him be a cop if he was crazy?”

In the lips of a child, that question sounded like an accusation. _Why indeed, Walter?_ Perhaps Jack Crawford would have an answer. Whatever lie he was telling himself this time.

“How did you find my number?”

“In Will Graham’s phone.” His voice became constricted and Bedelia wondered if he would cry. He didn’t. “We came to see him.”

The amount of information in that single sentence, a child didn’t know self-preservation. Her tone became sweeter, a honeyed trap. “Does your mother know you called me?” 

Nothing. Not even his breathing. Bedelia almost thought he had hung up on her. But something told her he was still there.

“Why did you call me, Walter?”

“I was curious.” He whispered. “I wanted to talk with you like you talked to my _dad_.”

The last word trembled in his mouth. And Bedelia waited, looking at the garden through the windows of her kitchen, golden over green. It would be a beautiful day.

Walter’s voice was very small when he continued. “Will you talk with me?”

_A small wounded bird by the sidewalk._

They met for the first time at the John Hopkins cafeteria over one hour ago. The conversation had been brief and stern. Under the watchful eyes of Molly Graham, still pale for blood loss and fatigue, Walter had lost his candor, hiding behind his mother’s displeasure. A mommy’s boy it would seem.

Bedelia decided to leave, but before she got up, Walter had asked her to go see Will Graham with him. Surprised Bedelia had looked to Molly Graham. Her eyes were full of distrust, contempt even. Bedelia wondered how much Will Graham had told her about their appointments, their conversations, and their shared past.

Not much if Molly’s answer was any indication. 

Fifteen minutes later, Bedelia found herself inside Will Graham’s room accompanied by an eleven-year-old boy.

By her side, Water’s eyes followed the squalid figure in the bed that once had been a beautiful man. The bandage in Will Graham’s face did very little to conceal the necrosed tissue of his punctured cheek. His face was rather unpleasant.

Hands in his pockets, Walter pressed his lips till they were nothing but a white thin line.

Bedelia tried to see through his eyes, imagining what he could be seeing. Was it his father figure or the crazy man painted in the news? Was it the FBI agent or the moribund stranger in the bed? Could it be a mix of all?

“Do you want to touch him?” Bedelia asked. _Touch was trust._

He swallowed before he answered. No Addam’s apple yet, no sins. Only a boy, starting his search for knowledge. As all men before him, would he need Eve to offer the first bite?

“No.” His voice was unsteady, but his eyes were clean, no signs of tears. Silent, he stared at the second father figure he had lost in his short span of life.

“Should we leave then?”

Walter’s gaze didn’t falter when he answered. “Yes.”

Looking at Will Graham for what she expected would be the last time, seeing the way bacteria were eating him alive, Bedelia recalled the last words he had spoken to her. The self-righteousness pouring from his tone like pus suppurated now from his wounds.

He had been right, of course. _Meat was back on the menu._

It just wasn’t hers.

***

_You’re not fooling anybody._

Molly thought as she found herself parking in front of Bedelia Du Maurier’s house. She still couldn’t believe she was doing it. But here they were, the first appointment with a psychiatrist. And not any psychiatrist, the Chesapeake Ripper psychiatrist. Seeing as the Ripper had been almost ten years under her care before being caught, she didn’t seem very good at her job. But then neither was Jack Crawford if this were where they ended. 

Will hadn’t talked about the psychiatrist or the fact he had been seeing her. During the years they have been together they had come to an agreement of respecting each other’s right of keeping secrets. They wouldn’t have stayed together otherwise. But Molly had read the news. Something with better quality than the Tattle Crime, but sometimes the Tattle Crime too. Freddie Lounds could embellish a lot of the events she described, but behind smoke there was fire, and if not everything at least something of what Freddie wrote was true, and the woman sure wrote a lot. 

But now, it wasn’t like Molly could ask Will, couldn’t she? 

Resentment boiled, and Molly found herself almost nauseous with the intensity of her self-hatred. But there was one person she was angrier than herself, and it was Jack Crawford. Molly couldn’t say all this was Jack’s fault, but a great deal was, and she wasn’t forgiving him any time soon. If ever.

In the morning following the death of the Dragon, Jack went to pick them up at the FBI hideout. He wanted to give them a ride and some of Will’s personal items. A phone, the FBI badge, and his wedding ring. Molly grabbed the phone and the ring. But she told Jack he could shove the badge up his ass together with the offer of staying in his house during Will’s recovery. 

As if Will had any fucking chance of recovery this time. Tears burned in Molly’s eyes, but she didn’t cry.

“So we are really doing this, huh?” Molly asked, taking the hair out of Wally’s eyes. He needed a haircut. They both needed a lot of things.

In the passenger seat, he avoided her gaze. Wally had always been a quiet child, even as a baby, he was like his father, didn’t like to share. Losing his father had brought them closer, they still talked little, but they had each other’s back. Molly and Wally against the world. At least until Will, until _this_. Now it seemed like they were each at a side of a wall and there was no way to climb. Molly felt like she was losing him, and she couldn’t afford to lose anything else.

They got out of the car, and a cool late breeze made her shiver. She offered her hand, but Wally ignored it, too old for this type of thing it would seem. She couldn’t tell him she was the one who needed it sometimes. He walked in front of her. Molly would never admit it but she felt intimidated by Du Maurier’s house, who had bronze doors? So pretentious. 

Wally didn’t seem to care, he rang the bell. They didn’t wait long. Soon the door opened and Du Maurier appeared on the threshold. A fake smile on her pinkish lips, golden hair perfectly curled on her shoulder, and dressed in couture. She looked expensive and she sure as hell was. Molly couldn’t help like the dress, though. As someone who owned a dress shop, Molly had to admit it, Du Maurier had great taste. The navy blue of her dress enhanced her gaze.

“Hello, Walter. Mrs. Graham.” Molly still hadn’t decided if her tone was condescendent or aloof. Probably both, Du Maurier sure looked like the cat who ate the canary and got away with it. “Please come on in.”

It was warm inside, Molly had half expected it to be so cold as the doctor’s eyes, an ice queen in her ice castle, as in the Disney movie with the catchy song that Wally had hated when they had watched together in the movies. _The hair fitted_ , Molly though almost smiling, but she doubted the doctor would appreciate the comparison.

In particular, Molly hadn’t anything against Bedelia Du Maurier, despite maybe her choice of patients. Molly couldn’t understand how she still got a license to practice medicine, or why anyone would ever want to be her patient? To say Molly didn’t trust her would be an understatement, how could anyone really? But Wally seemed to have developed a strange bond with the doctor. And he had been put through too much already, Molly didn’t feel like taking anything else from him. If Wally needed to talk, and it had to be with this woman, so be it.

It didn’t mean Molly had to be glad or... Molly didn’t know how she felt about it, or about anything really. She was still processing. The Red Dragon, her injury. Will’s _accident_. Gosh! She wanted a break.

Molly stopped, they were both looking at her. Wally with clear embarrassment, and Du Maurier with cool expectancy. The Doctor had asked her something that Molly hadn’t listened to because she was distracted rambling inside her own head. Mortified, Molly asked her to please repeat the question.

“Since this is your first appointment, I thought you could be more comfortable with separate sessions. What do you think, Mrs. Graham?”

 _Mrs. Graham_ thought it was bullshit. But she couldn’t say that, so she looked at her son.

“Is that what you want, Wally?”

Hands in his pocket, he shrugged. Molly’s heart sank. She guessed it was decided then, separated they were. But looking at her kid standing by the side of the Cannibal’s wife, Molly needed every bit of self-restraint she still got not to grab Wally and leave. Run as fast as they could and never stop. Never look back.

_How tough could it be to hold on to anything good?_

“You can wait in the library, Mrs. Graham.” Du Maurier offered, with what Molly expected was politeness and not pity. She wouldn’t accept pity from this woman. Molly bit her lip, if for preventing a cry or a scream she didn’t know.

Of course, Du Maurier would have a library, on the top of her Jimmy Choo’s, straight posture and minimalistic house, she damn looked like the type of woman who had a library. Molly thought of the fifty-ish books she owned, kept on shelves in her living room. Fifty-one if she counted the worn-out paperback edition of _To kill a Mockingbird_ she had obsessed during high school, and still carried in her purse. The purse that had stayed in the cabin, abandoned with the rest of their lives.

Maybe she should have listened to her mother’s advice and become a lawyer. A lawyer would have a library. 

Two pairs of eyes followed her as she walked to where Du Maurier had indicated the library stayed. Molly couldn’t help but feel like they were the same. It was all so slippery.

_Slippery as Hell._

***

“How you feel today?”

The question hung between them while the afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass windows behind her back, casting shadows over herself and the boy in front of her. Sitting in front of each other, mere feet apart, Bedelia observed as Walter fidget in his chair, his eyes following the golden warm light shining in her hair.

When presented with the alternative of choosing his seat, hesitantly he had walked to the same chair Hannibal Lecter had sat during all his years of therapy. It was a strange contrast to have a child sitting in the same chair as once had sat the Chesapeake Ripper.

“I had a dream last night.” A little tilt of his head, and a familiar feeling set on the top of Bedelia’s stomach. “Do you have dreams, Dr. Du Maurier?”

“All people have dreams, it’s a natural part of our adaptive cognitive processing. While some of us remember what we dream, others simply don’t. What did you dream about, Walter?”

“The Red Dragon.”

A pause. Perhaps he was testing the waters, perhaps he was testing her. Bedelia waited. Lately, her life was an uninterrupted wait.

“And Will. In my dream, Will killed the Red Dragon and we went home.”

“How that made you feel… going home?”

“ _Happy._ ” He said, tasting the word in his mouth like it was a treat he hadn’t tried in a long time. “We were happy, everything went to be exactly like it was before Jack Crawford showed up. Will and I finished reforming the boat and we went fishing as he promised.”

 _Happily Ever After._ A fairy tale that wasn’t coming for either of them. A boat that would never be finished, but somehow had already sunk. How many more things would be left unfinished in his life because of Will Graham?

_Because of Hannibal Lecter?_

Every person had an intrinsic responsibility for their own life, but how that applied to an eleven-year-old? Sighing Bedelia brought her hands to her lap, forcing herself to focus her attention on the child in front of her.

“In the stories, the hero always kills the dragon, it’s his duty. Do you think it was Will Graham’s duty to kill the Dragon in your dream?”

Walter played with the zipper of his jacket. He needed time to think. Bedelia gave it to him, space to mourn privately. And in his eyes, she recognized a shadow she saw every day when she looked in the mirror. Regret. Guilty.

“I told him to.” His words were so quiet she almost didn’t hear them.

“Told him what, Walter?” She asked somehow already knowing the answer. He refused to make eye contact, hiding his face behind his hands.

“To kill him. Kill him. Kill him!” He shook while repeating the same two words over and over, and over. Almost cries of pain. “Kill him. Kill him. _Kill him!_ ”

“And he did it, Walter,” Bedelia said. He went still, and silence never felt so loud. “Will Graham killed the Dragon.”

“But he let the Devil take him.” They stared at each other, his eyes were dry but dark, like a sky before a storm. “The Devil took you too. But you survived. I read you were his wife. That he drugged you. That he killed people and ate them. Did you eat them too?”

A defensive NO sprang in her tongue. But Bedelia bit it back, swallowing it whole. It tasted bitter as a glass of Amarone. It tasted of sadness.

Had she really not eaten them? Had what she did been so different?

 _Had she not liked it?_

Some questions were better left answered.

Bedelia opted for the psychiatrist’s prerogative, answering a question with another question.

“What do you think, Walter?”

“I think that if someone drugged me and gave me people to eat, I would be angry with them.” He smiled. “You don’t seem angry, Dr. Du Maurier.”

A small smile played on the corner of Bedelia’s mouth, almost imperceptible. Walter’s eyes reflected the light like sunstones. _Children_ , sometimes people didn’t give them the credit they deserved.

“Anger can be a form of process pain too, Walter.” He crossed his arms and looked away. A flicker behind his eyes. Bedelia felt like she had hit something. Perhaps a nerve, perhaps something else. She decided to push it. “Sometimes people hurt us so badly we want to hurt them back. Anger allows us to do it without feeling guilty.” She paused, he didn’t move. When Bedelia continued, her voice was very quiet. “Will Graham hurt you, Walter. He didn’t keep his promises. If you are angry with him. It is only natural.”

“I’m not angry.” He murmured, still looking to a point over her shoulder. “I’m disappointed.”

In the silence that followed, Bedelia learned that it was a feeling she could relate.

***

The rain hit the windows in her kitchen with a smooth rhythm. Raindrops running over the glass surface like cold tears. Sipping from her glass of Château d’Yquem, Bedelia savored the sweetness of honey over tropical fruit. A change from the bitterness of reds and Amarones.

In a room in her mind palace, fragments of her conversation with Walter and Molly Graham replayed as she analyzed its meaning. Separating what could be considered relevant or not. The most important parts already archived in their respective files. 

Next week they both had a new appointment and she was planning to discuss Will Graham state. If Will Graham lasted till there.

Bedelia left the kitchen, the sound of her heels barely heard over the melody of Beethoven’s _Largo assai ed espressivo_ resonating through the speakers. His ghosts were not so different from hers. 

The melody of a cello walked her to the bathroom, and standing by the open door, she stared at the bathtub.

At that moment, Bedelia made a decision.

Placing her wine glass over the sink counter, she undressed slowly. First out of her heels, then her dress, and last her underwear. The cool air gave her goosebumps. 

Then, with one last look to her bathtub, she walked straight to the shower, opening it and turning the water to scalding.

The water poured over her like the rain outside. 

When finished she didn’t dry herself or dress. Bedelia walked straight to her bed, her damp hair clinging to the naked skin of her back, reflecting the light like melted gold.

Her eyes were closed even before her head touched the pillows.

It was time to move on.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and feedback, you guys are awesome! <3


	3. Kyrie II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Continuation of the previous Chapter;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mildly mentions of *Fester*.

**II. Christe, eleison**

_Baltimore, Fall, Two weeks later._

The smell was the first thing Bedelia noticed.

 _Violets_. Unexpected, especially inside a hospital. But today Will Graham’s room smelled of violets.

The source was a solitary vase filled with water and an elegant bouquet. Lilacs, irises, and violets. An overwhelming mixture of cloying floral and powdery sweetness.

It smelled like a memory.

Not even twenty-five hours ago, Will had suffered his second cardiac arrest. His heart now resisted death with the help of a pacemaker.

With the tip of her index, Bedelia traced the scar in Will Graham’s forehead where years ago, a surgical electric saw had almost opened his skull. It had faded with time, and she could barely feel it. The scar on his cheek would not fade so easily. Or at all.

No mark of the Devil had marked him as deeply as the one gifted by the Dragon. 

There were parts where the skin was so thin she could almost see bone, the flesh still angry red and swollen. The secretion, a deep yellow-green. Color over a ravished canvas. 

An abstract painting.

His face reminded her of a Picasso’s quote. _To arrive at abstraction, you must always begin with a concrete reality._

There was nothing concrete about Will Graham. He had lost all traces of reality. 

Bedelia touched the naked skin of his chest. It was surprisingly warm and had a sticky feel of sweaty skin washed poorly in sponge baths. She applied light pressure, and against her hand, Will Graham’s heartbeat evolved from quiet bradycardia to panicked tachycardia.

It felt like he almost knew he was being touched. 

His cardiac monitor accused the disruption with a loud noise, and by her side, Walter gasped. Bedelia grabbed his shoulder. Gentle but firm. Touch gave the world an emotional context, and hers told him to stay put. _Trust_. Such a small word for an impossible feeling.

“Give me your hand, Walter.” He hesitated, and she added. _“Please.”_

Walter moved, and Bedelia helped him place his hand over Will Graham’s chest. She pressed her hand over his, and they both felt Will Graham’s heartbeat against their fingertips. 

Walter closed his eyes. The heart monitoring was the only sound in the world. 

A small tear slipped, running down his cheek. Bedelia caught it with a finger before Walter released his hand with a desperate pull. She watched him go, the door closing smoothly behind his back.

After he left, Bedelia still stayed for a moment. Her hand over Will Graham’s heart and her eyes lost in the bouquet of violets. 

In the right light, they shared the same colors.

Under her palm, Will Graham’s heartbeat was like the fragile wings of a little bird beating desperately against its cage. It would soon be free.

Inside her chest, Bedelia’s heart continued to beat in the same steady rhythm.

But when she left, the scent of violets stayed with her.

***

_Baltimore, Fall, Six years ago._

Before her _attack_ , he had always been her last patient of the week. And only recently, looking in retrospect, she had concluded that it was how he had designed it. Now, he was her only patient, and that really didn’t matter anymore.

It was, though, an unfortunate coincidence his session had to be today.

Taking a deep breath, Bedelia opened the door. The cold afternoon wind made her shiver under the thin blouse. “Hello, Hannibal.”

He smiled, his maroon eyes warm, and Bedelia’s chest constricted when she saw the flowers in his hands. Of course, he wouldn’t forget, and that was precisely why she had wanted his session to happen any other day but today.

“Happy Birthday, Dr. Du Maurier.” He said, offering her the elegant bouquet. Lilacs, irises, and violets.

“Thank you, they are lovely.” She sounded breathless, almost overwhelmed by the cloying sweetness of the flowers and the gesture. His fingers brushed hers, a delicate touch of warmth that made her realize her fingers were cold. “Please, come on in.”

“I took the liberty of writing a card too.”

Bedelia found the white envelope attached to the bouquet, her name written in neat cursive letters.

“It was very thoughtful of you.” She said, resisting the impulse of running her fingertip over his flourished handwrite, feeling the grooves his fountain pen had carved on the expensive stationery. Looking into his eyes, she felt an urgent need to be alone. “Do you mind waiting while I put this in a vase?”

“Perhaps, I could accompany you?” 

Bedelia arched a brow at him. She would rather he not.

“I brought wine.”

Only then, Bedelia noticed the bag in his hand. A sad smile appeared on her lips when he showed her the bottle, and she finally read the vintage. _Bâtard-Montrachet, 2002._

“It’s a rather special year.” He said, gaze dark.

And in a way, it was. It was the year that life as they had known ended.

***

_Baltimore, Fall, Present._

The slow click of her heels was as familiar to him as John Bonham drumming pattern in _Rock And Roll_ intro. Walter was learning to differentiate her feelings through the way she walked, listing its variations inside his mind like drum licks he practiced till perfection.

Today she was distracted. And he wondered why.

They had just got back from the hospital, and in her kitchen, she was pouring him orange juice. He had preferred a soda, but she didn’t have one, so he settled for anything that would delay the beginning of his session. He still felt pretty embarrassed for having cried, especially in front of her, and so he hoped she wouldn’t bring it up.

After he left Will’s room, she stayed behind for some more minutes. But he was still crying when she found him, sitting in a plastic chair by the end of the corridor. He hadn’t wanted to see his mother, and if he could have chosen, he wouldn’t have seen her either. 

He just wanted to be left alone. To be forgotten. To not think about anything. 

But when Dr. Du Maurier silently sat on his side and wiped his tears with fingers, he changed his mind. They were close, so close he could smell her perfume. 

Fruits, like apples and pomegranates. Dark and sweet.

Her touch was warm, but her eyes cold. He felt so confused, like freezing at the same time warmth spread through his entire body. It was so unexpected that it stunned him to silence.

Even now, only remembering it made his ears burn. He tried to erase it, but he knew he couldn’t.

The feelings were like catchy songs he tried to forget but kept repeating inside his mind till exhaustion. Like telling himself not to think about white elephants. And it was the first thing he thought.

_Her perfume._

Coming from the hall, he could hear his mom’s muffled voice. She was on the phone with their dog sitter, her go-to move when she wanted to avoid things lately.

Like she had been avoiding to see Will.

His mom didn’t want him to notice, so she always had good excuses. But she hadn’t gone to see Will even once since they had arrived almost five weeks ago. He couldn’t really blame her. Under the hospital light, with all the tubes, and the scar on his cheek, Will hardly looked like Will. 

Taking care of their dogs was her way of feeling closer to him, and Walter understood. He also had his way of feeling closer to Will.

“How do you feel… after seeing Will?” Dr. Du Maurier asked, placing the glass in front of him. Her hair fell, brushing his shoulder, and something knotted in the bottom of his belly. He held his breath, mouth dry, not daring to move a muscle. 

She noticed and moved away, careful not to touch him again. Blushing, he grabbed the glass and sipped the cold liquid. It was like swallowing sand.

“I don’t know if I want to talk about it.” He hated how his voice trembled. She crossed her arms, nodding in silent agreement. She would respect his decision. Walter felt like he could breathe again.

“Thank you.” He whispered, and Dr. Du Maurier arched one brow at him. “For the _juice_.”

They both knew it wasn’t for the juice. She nodded again. 

“We will talk about it eventually, Walter.” She walked to the other side of the kitchen island, and the sunlight caught on her hair, perfect golden curls resting on her shoulder. Even without ever touching it, he knew they would be soft in his fingers. His knuckles went white around his glass. “But as your psychiatrist, first, it is my responsibility to make sure you feel safe to talk about it.”

 _Safe_. Something hurt deep inside him. Walter felt like crying for the second time today. And he only had cried once since all of this had started. The first time he had dreamed about the Dragon. Not the dream he had told her. It was the one he didn’t like to think about. The one he had while his mother was still in the hospital. The one about his mother dying. 

The Dragon killing her. 

_There was so much blood, and he was so afraid. So alone._

He had wake shaking, his face wet, and he had cried in his pillow afraid his grandmother could hear him. Safe? When had been the last time he felt safe? It had been after or before Will Graham? After or before his father’s death? 

Walter brought his face to his hands, and tears burned behind his eyelids. He refused to let them fall this time. To cry in front of her again, two times in the same day. He swallowed a sob. The word _safe_ burning like his tears.

Dr. Du Maurier touched his shoulder, and he tensed, startled. Walter hadn’t heard her getting closer.

“Tears are the most honest answer we can give to our pain.” She said softly, and something inside him finally snapped. “You deserve honesty, Walter.”

He sobbed against her chest. His fists tugging at the silk of her blouse with desperation. His entire body shaking. He was grateful she was holding him because _honesty_ felt like falling and he was so afraid of shattering when hitting the ground.

He didn’t know how long he cried like that, but when he stopped she had a damp spot on her blouse, just over her left breast. Some locks of her hair were wet too. His tears had darkened it, like stains of dry blood, washed brown. Without thinking, he raised his hand to touch it, and she grabbed him by the wrist. Her grip felt like a bite. He blushed, suddenly self-conscious and ashamed.

Still holding his hand, she smiled. Her lips pulling softly at the corner of her mouth. Dr. Du Maurier smiled rarely. But when she did, it changed her face. The angles becoming smooth, like edges losing their sharpness. He wondered if that was the way she had smiled at Will. For some reason, he doubted it. 

That smile was warm, gentle. Maybe that had been the way she had smiled at her _husband_. Not for the first time, Walter really wished Hannibal Lecter was dead, that his body was being eaten by fish somewhere deep in the ocean.

Dr. Du Maurier brushed the hair out of his eyes. He needed a haircut, but his mother kept forgetting, and he didn’t want to push it, but now he was almost glad it was long. When she pulled away, he inclined his head, missing the touch. She smiled again, her eyes shining. They were so blue, the colors so vivid.

It reminded him of the strange flowers in Will’s room.

***

_Baltimore, Fall, Six years ago._

The flowers stayed in a porcelain vase over the coffee table during the entire session. Its scent permeating their conversation like ghosts haunting dark rooms. As time passed, Hannibal seemed to become even more distracted, disappearing behind the veil where Bedelia dared not to follow him. 

At the end of their session, she asked a question just to find his gaze lost in the bouquet on their side.

“They look beautiful here.” He said quietly, the tip of his fingers brushing a small violet.

“Yes, they do.” Bedelia agreed, watching as behind the veil he fought demons she could not see.

“Violet was my sister’s favorite color.”

On the other side of the veil, a shadow crept closer to light, growing bigger and bigger, stretching its arms over both of them. In his eyes an emotion danced, swirling alone almost forgotten, and Bedelia recognized it as _love_. 

“When we were little, I used to pick up aubergines by the lake behind Castle Lecter, and Mischa would hold it firmly in her chest while laughing, the aubergine against her skin still warm by the touch of the sun. She loved the color.”

For a moment, they were both there, behind Castle Lecter, the sun shining on the surface of the lake. A little girl’s laugh echoed, and the breeze brought the smell of spring.

It smelled of violets. 

Hannibal closed his eyes, and a tear ran down his cheek. It stopped in his chin catching all the light in the room.

When he looked at her again, the emotion in his eyes was gone and the memory disappeared behind the veil, like inscriptions in the sand being washed away by waves. The only thing left was an empty silence, the echo of grief.

“Is this your favorite memory of her?”

Bedelia resisted the impulse of wiping his tears with her fingers. Resisted touching him.

“Yes.” He gave her a sad smile, and fresh tears streamed down his face. Inside her chest something bloomed, something soft Bedelia hoped a hard cold winter would kill.

“What other memories do you have of her, Hannibal?”

“Sadly, I don’t have as many.” He said, and Bedelia believed him, even though she knew he was lying. It wasn’t to her he was lying, though. Sometimes, we tell ourselves a lie so many times it becomes true. 

“How does it feel... to talk about her?”

He avoided her gaze, she waited. In the end, he left out a single word. “Honest.”

“How so?” Bedelia glanced discreetly at the watch on her wrist. They were way past their session time now, but she really didn’t want to end it yet, it was rare for him to be so open, so _honest_. 

The stitches in his _person suit_ were always neatly done. Sometimes she envisioned her questions like scalpels, tearing at it blindly but with finesse enough to be precise. 

Through the slits, she glimpsed shadows that told her half-truths.

Every session, she observed him behind the veil, resisting the impulse to follow. Wishing she knew if she did it for him or herself.

When she lifted her eyes, Hannibal was looking at her. He had noticed.

“Our time is up.”

It was not a question, but she felt the need to answer it anyway. “Yes.”

Under his intense gaze, Bedelia resisted the impulse of crossing her arms. With him, she was always resisting. Her feelings, her impulses. _Him_.

Especially him.

***

_Baltimore, Fall, Present._

“This isn’t working.”

Sitting in her chair, Bedelia watched as Molly Graham paced in front of the window, tensed muscles under her knitted sweater. A caged animal. 

They were in the middle of her session, and it was becoming clear by the minute Molly didn’t want to be there. But then why didn’t she leave? It was not like Bedelia was forcing her to stay. 

Bedelia had a presentiment it was because Molly hadn’t anywhere else to be, and so she stayed. What would be the alternative otherwise?

Bedelia couldn’t help but relate to that. The inescapable nature of their own choices. But her voice was still cool when she asked. “Why do you think that?”

Contempt flared in Molly’s eyes, and Bedelia figured Molly Graham and her husband shared the same unappreciation for her methods of conducting therapy. Bedelia almost smiled. 

Molly snorted. “I _don’t_ know.”

Crossing her arms, Bedelia frowned. “Perhaps, this would work better if you were honest?”

Molly’s head jerked as if slapped. Her cheeks colored a beautiful red. “And you think _you_ are?”

“One of us has to be honest, Molly,” Bedelia said, getting up and walking to the small liquor cabinet. She poured two glasses of scotch. Smiling, she said. “But I do not believe it has to be _me_.”

Molly scowled, looking dubious to the glass Bedelia was offering.

“Unorthodox methods.” She muttered.

Bedelia smiled all silk charm over cold, sharp steel; soft skin caressing the edge of a blade. Molly didn’t fall for it, but she gulped her whiskey loudly. Accommodating in her seat, Bedelia pointed to the chair in front of her. “Please, sit.”

Surprisingly, Molly obeyed. They sipped their drinks in silence. And Bedelia could see the decision being made behind Molly’s eyes. 

_When drowning, one was grateful for the rope even if tied around one’s neck._

Molly brought her head between her legs, and she let out a cry. _“I’m losing it.”_

“How do you mean?”

“It’s gone. Everything is gone. Will told me he wouldn’t be the same, and I said I would, but boy, wasn’t I wrong? How could I not change? _How could I hold on?_ ” Molly took a sip of her glass, brushing her hair out of her face, her bun slowly slipping as her tears. “And Wally. Gosh! First his father and now _this_! He doesn’t talk to me, he... _I’m losing him._ ”

“Grief is an individual process,” Bedelia said, words quiet as stones sinking underwater, the whiskey tasting bitter on her tongue, like lies. “The loss of Will Graham-”

“Will isn’t dead!” 

It was half a scream, half a sob, and both women stared at each other. An unspoken word hung in the air between them, charging the room with desperation. 

He isn’t dead! 

_Yet_.

“No, he is not.” Bedelia traced the rim of her glass with an index, letting the words out very slowly. Under the scrutiny of her icy eyes, Molly’s hands shook. She was really losing it. They all were in different ways. “But it only makes it more difficult. You cannot grief someone who isn’t dead.”

Molly’s answer was gulping down all the whisky in her glass. 

After some reflection, Bedelia did the same.

***

_Baltimore, Fall, Six years ago._

_“Time is the longest distance between two places,”_ Hannibal said, crossing his hands in his lap. He let out a slow breath, and the tears in his chin reflected the light in the room like small shards of glass. “We found ourselves in the same place, Dr. Du Maurier. But still, time is never long enough to diminish the distance.”

As the silence grew between them, Bedelia felt her armor slowly slipping through her fingers, disintegrating like rusted iron.

“Do you want to open the wine?” Bedelia asked because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Perhaps on another occasion.” His words surprised her. She concealed it well, but not well enough. He added. “That bottle is a gift to you. Consider it a memento of _change_. You should drink it when you’re ready to accept it.”

“You talk like change is inevitable. As if my only option was to accept it.” Her tone was more bitter than she intended, but in his eyes, the gleam of emotion scared her. “Do you want things to change, Hannibal?”

“Don’t you?”

“Not always.” Bedelia looked at him intently, piercing him with her gaze. On the other side of the veil, something shifted. Something dark. “Some changes are _unwelcomed_.”

“But sometimes necessary.” His words were quiet, but she heard the petulancy of a child in them.

“Necessity may compel us to change, but that doesn’t mean the change is desired.”

Pursing his lips, Hannibal brushed an invisible speck of dust in his trouser, musing her words. When he looked at her she knew his next words even before he spoke. “The change caused by your _attack_ was a desired necessity, Dr. Du Maurier.”

His words felt like stabs. Sharp and cold. It left her breathless. A door in a room inside her mind opened, the light casting shadows that threatened to swallow the world. 

“My _attack_ compelled me to change, but it was not a necessity, Hannibal.”

“But it was desired?” 

Smiling sadly, Bedelia looked to a point over his shoulder. The changes since her _attack_ had not been a necessity, but did it make a difference? Did it make a difference if she had not desired it?

_Had she really not desired it?_

Some questions were better left answered.

Bedelia made sure the door in her mind stayed closed. But surprised, she found humidity in her cheek, a solitary tear. She wiped it almost ashamed. When her eyes met his, the tenderness in them hurt her somewhere deep.

“I apologize, today is your birthday, and we should not discuss such gloomy matters,” Hannibal said, rising from his chair, straightening his suit meticulously, and preparing to leave. “You must forgive me.”

Bedelia still found enough strength to maintain her composure. For the sake of both of them, someone had to keep boundaries. “Hannibal, as your psychiatrist, my personal life should not interfere with the efficacy of your therapy.”

“And as my friend?” There were lines that should not be crossed. Lines that were so blurred, Bedelia couldn’t even tell if it existed anymore, or if they had ever existed. But they would never be friends. They both knew it. That particular line had been drawn a long time ago by circumstance, and it would abide. Though looking at him, seeing the dry trail of tears in his cheek, she could not bring herself to say the words, to say anything. Hannibal gave her a sad smile. “As your patient, our time together is restricted by its own rules. Like a game, time plays us, and now mine is over.”

“ _Time is a game played beautifully by children,_ ” Bedelia said, getting up and following him to the door. In her wrist, the clock ticked. Always forward. “As adults, time plays us, but we’re yet to learn the rules of the game.”

Hannibal dressed his coat, movements almost surgical in their precision. He looked at the watch on his own wrist. Buying time. A bargain he knew he would lose. At the end of their session, they always looked like a couple refusing to sign a divorce. Refusing to accept an end for something that had never begun.

In some ways, they could be even more than that.

Instead of opening the door and leaving, he walked in her direction, stopping so close their shoulders almost touched. 

Even in her heels, she still had to raise her chin to look him in the eyes. She remembered a time when she had found that appealing. When the warmth of his arms around her would bring comfort.

A very long time ago.

“Time plays by God’s design.” Extending a hand, he touched the locks on her shoulder, so softly she almost couldn’t feel it. “The designs of God are wanton, and Time like God is merciless.”

With a delicate movement, Bedelia pushed his hand away. “A merciless game where there is only forward, Hannibal.”

He nodded. “A flimsy thing, time. Passing without going anywhere. A humanity illusion.”

“The same as _change_.”

“Change allows us agency in the world, Dr. Du Maurier. If we choose to change, that means control.”

“Is that why you crave change, Hannibal?” Bedelia touched his face, running her fingertip over the dry trail of his tears. “Because you crave control?”

“We all crave control in our ways.” He tilted his head slightly, and a feeling settled in the bottle of her stomach. It was the unsettling feeling of being _seen_. “You maintain yours by refusing to acknowledge that you changed.” Hannibal held her hand and brought it to his lips. Inhaling the scent of her perfume on her wrist, he kissed the intern part of her hand. “That _we_ changed. _Together_.”

“ _Hannibal_.” It was more a plea than a warning. But she didn’t know what she was pleading for. Hannibal’s arms closed around her, bringing her closer, the warmth of their bodies being shared through layers of expensive fabric. She rested her head on the curve of his neck. He smelled of expensive soap, clean clothes, and tears. 

He smelled of pain and lies.

With a finger in her chin, he urged her to look at him. Inches between their mouths, their breaths mingling. His eyes were a dark maroon reflecting the light in pinpoints of red. Like small drops of blood.

“ _Nothing endures but change, Bedelia_.” The words breathed against her lips made her shiver. He stroked her hair with slender careful fingers while his lips brushed hers in a promise of a kiss that never came.

Hannibal let go of her, and Bedelia felt suddenly cold as she watched him leave, the door closing quietly behind his back. A silent warning, a silent plea. She stared at it, time passing with cruel irony.

In her kitchen, she threw the bouquet in the trash. But the smell of violets stayed with her even after she left the house. Even during her dinner with a friend and after two bottles of wine. Even when she followed her friend to the hotel room she had booked for them. Even when she left in the middle of the night and came back to an empty cold bed, where she dreamed of desperate kisses, blood, and violets.

It was only on the following morning Bedelia remembered his card.

***

_Baltimore, Fall, Present._

A glass of scotch in her hand, Bedelia walked to the library. The fireplace was lit, the wood burning with small crepitation. The flames casting shadows. Under her arm, she held a rosewood box retrieved that afternoon from a discrete safe house downtown. The varnish was faded, worn out by time. 

Inside it held everything Bedelia didn’t want to remember anymore. Old pictures of a life she wasn’t sure had ever really belonged to her. Files, contracts, passports, jewelers. It wasn’t a big box, and its content wasn’t heavy. But its weight was still too much. 

As Atlas, she was carrying her personal world. 

Kneeling on the carpet in front of the fireplace, Bedelia opened it. Not wanting to see what it held but still looking. Her eyes roved over its content, a postcard of Paris, a golden ring. Her brain assimilating old memories like _dejavù_ at the same time that her hand searched with precision for an old envelope. _A picture of a little girl._

The box closed with a crack, and Bedelia stared at it shaking, the envelope held tight between her fingers.

Over the years, the paper had acquired a yellow tone of things old, long gone the smell of violets.

Under the fireplace’s warm light, Bedelia opened and read it again after almost seven years.

~

**_‘_ ** **A violet in the youth of primy nature,  
** **Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,  
** **The perfume and suppliance of a minute;  
** **No more.’**

_Dear Bedelia,_

_Our time together seems to remind me of violets. Perhaps it’s the color of your eyes. Perhaps it’s something else entirely. Opportunity lies in the unknown._

_Once again, the stars are aligned much the same they were the day you were born. Do you feel it in you? The pull of change? Birthdays offer us a great opportunity to move on. An end that is a prelude to a new beginning. Beginnings and ends stitched together in time._

_The stitches of our time together are loose, not permanent as violets. Tinted by color but lacking resistance. Perhaps one day, our time together will have a hold more lasting than bronze. And although I certainly would miss the color, I would always have your eyes._

_Lapis lazuli, cobalt, and azurite. All minerals, all lasting._

_Did you know the blue pigment is very rare in nature? Especially biologically._

_Most blue we see in living creatures is not real, it’s actually structural color. Light hits structures on the cell and the reflected wavelength makes us see blue._

_But it’s not really there, it’s just an illusion._

_The lovely color of your eyes is not really blue, Bedelia. It’s a physical phenomenon. Like our time together your eyes are deceiving. A lie._

_But they are the only lie I’ll ever believe._

Aere perennius _,_

_Hannibal_

~

Eyes following the unpredictable flicker of the fire, Bedelia sipped her whiskey. At least she didn’t need to worry about the bottle of wine, Jack Crawford and his men had broken it. Another teacup shattered that would never mend. A change never completed.

Everything was in pieces. To an extent even herself. She expected tears, but it never came. 

Bedelia almost felt disappointed.

Running her finger over his neat handwriting, she felt the spots where his fountain pen had pressed the paper with strength enough to almost cut it. All letters traced with perfect straight strokes, he had never hesitated. And now, nor would she. With one last look, Bedelia threw the card in the fire, the flames immediately consuming the paper.

Hannibal’s words burned till they were nothing more than ashes.

It was time to forget.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Picasso's quote is from 'Conversations with Picasso' by Brassaï;  
> \- 'Time is the longest distance between two places.' - Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie (play);  
> \- 'Time is a game played beautifully by children.' and 'Nothing endures but change.' - are two quotes attributed to Heraclitus, although only the former can be found in Fragments translated by Brooks Haxton;  
> \- In the card Hannibal wrote to Bedelia, he quoted Hamlet without giving the credit to William Shakespeare;  
> \- Aere perennius is Latin for 'more lasting than bronze', from Horace, Odes;  
> \- Tyndall Effect is the name of the physical phenomenon Hannibal used to describe Bedelia's eyes color, it is also why we see the sky as blue;  
> \- Thank you to everyone reading this, hope you're healthy and safe. <3


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